The Orkney Isles in their entirety present a Geological masterpiece. Their great cliffs, like the walls of a fortress, piled high with dark red sandstone, layer upon layer of Geology pounded incessantly by the Atlantic swell. The name Hoy comes from the Norse ‘Ha ey’, meaning ‘tall isle’. You’ll get a sense of why this name fits as you approach Kirkwall by boat and St Johns Head, perhaps the most majestic of all Britain’s sea cliffs, looms higher and higher. As your boat nears the coastline, the Old Man himself comes into view, as if stepping out into the sea, presenting his three-dimensional figure. White horses frolic at his toes, foaming at the bit, while large boulders lay behind him like the remains of his house; the debris of foundations which once connected him to land, some 250 years past.
As with all the best adventures, an ascent of the Old Man begins long before you are climbing the route. From Kirkwall, another ferry ride crosses to Hoy where you may find yourself seated amongst local children on their way back from school, who scan your big bags of climbing equipment inquisitively. It’s then possible to make use of the taxi service (and school bus) run by a generous local couple, providing a quick if somewhat bone-rattling journey down a single track, potholed road to your base at Rackwick Bay. The cliffs give way to a vast, flat expanse of pebble strewn beach, like the calm between the storm. In the heart of the bay itself, a small bothy of hope stands alone in the centre. A good path leaves a few scattered houses, paving the way up and across the heath moorland toward the Old Man, who saves himself for when you are suitably close. At first, he reveals only his summit blocks. Only when you reach the land’s edge does he grow to full size, and you can gaze in awe - up, down and across – at his wise old stature, one of the tallest sea stacks in Britain. Fulmars and Guillemots soar in and out, a seal or two look up from the water, perhaps even some Orca may pass by, they all seem to be watching and waiting for the show to begin.
Unlike some of these other great figures of the sea, scattered across the coast lines of Scotland, the Old Man of Hoy is attached to the land. A grassy and somewhat slippery decent from the mainland leads to a narrow ridge of jumbled blocks dusted in fine red sand. There is no swimming required here – it’s more like walking the plank.
There are seven routes which weave their way up the stack. The Original Route being the most common route of choice and the Original line on this cliff, first climbed by Rusty Baillie, Tom Patey and Chris Bonnington in 1966. Initially the route rambles up sandy ledges and shelves on the left side of the face. The odd hand jam or sandy sloper eases you into the style. The ultimate pitch is to follow, starting down, then questing across rightwards and into the widening chimney system above. Care should be given to the ropes here for the second. The ensuing cracks and chimneys like a 3D display cabinet of climbing history, old wooden chocks and blocks to get in and amongst, transporting the senses back in time. A safe yet intimidating pitch of incredible climbing. Above, the route trends rightwards towards the final magnificent corner pitch. The way is more amenable but still fiercely guarded by Fulmars and an array of more suspect rock to negotiate.
The Story
I first visited Orkney as a young, green climber. Accompanying me was a chap who had grown up in Kirkwall. We took the journey to Hoy in his old maroon Rover 25. This trusy old girl was to escort us on many adventures to follow, including our first six-week trip to the alps. We converted the back into a sleeping platform and packed her so full she nearly burst. On this occasion we just went for a look at the Old Man, as we knew then he was out of our league. But that first inspection was more than enough to ignite a burning desire.
During the ferry crossing on my next visit, nipping out onto the deck for a look at the Old Man as we passed, the Orkney Anthem whistled into my consciousness once again.
Tae the riven rock rims around them,
Tae stack and skerry and geo,
Tae the cliffs piled high wi their heads in the sky and their feet in the surge below.
Isles ne’er forgotten….
It must have been 10 years since my previous visit. A glimmer of light and hope cut through the damp sea air. I had been in North Wales all summer preparing for an upcoming climbing assessment. I had travelled back to Scotland, specifically for this trip, to Guide the Old Man with my friend Andy, a regular partner and client of mine. The weather in Wales had been excellent, warm and dry for long enough to climb some great classics. But there had been a classic north-south divide in the country, and Scotland had been taking the hit with nearly constant rain for much of the summer. And so, an air of doubt surrounded this trip, but we had decided to risk it nonetheless. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I checked the forecast one final time before disappearing out of signal as we bumped and jostled down the road to Rackwick bay. The trend suggested the rain would be clearing into the evening and the following day, so I repeated this to Andy, trying to reassure us both as we looked onward at the windscreen wipers going ten to the dozen. I had hoped to book some self-catering accommodation at the local hostel but it had been fully booked, so we settled for the bothy. On arrival this looked welcoming and we were excited to stay in such an iconic spot. However, on further inspection the place appeared to be in a bit of turmoil. Signs on the wall exclaiming: ‘careful, rat poison, please don’t leave any food’. On the floor beneath and all-around lay bags of disregarded litter. It was obvious the place had been disrespected and although it appeared some progress was being made the place was still in a bit of a state.
Over many years sleeping in grim bivouacs - halfway up frozen routes in the Alps, stuffed into the backs of cars, or just curled up under some random boulders - my expectations around living standards were steadily increasing (though I wouldn’t like to admit it). There was an Austrian couple who had set up camp in the other, and definitely cleaner end of the bothy, their dripping wet kit hanging above. Chatting to them for a moment, I quickly realized they were made of tough stuff, having recently attempted to climb on St Johns Head in poor weather. Instantly I felt the need to prove my bivouacking prowess and hurriedly rolled out my mat, clearing the rubbish to make myself space to sleep. It suddenly dawned on me I hadn’t filled up our two large water containers at the Dock. Damn it. Nothing but brown boiled water to offer Andy for hydration tomorrow. I glanced across at him now, solemnly clearing away the litter to make his own little personal space. It struck me that this wasn’t really how I envisaged our trip to the Old Man commencing. And with that, I reigned in the tough girl facade and headed off for a look at the hostel. Perhaps I could at least find some water there.
To my surprise I found the place deserted, not a car, light, bicycle, tourist or water tap in sight. Just a very brief note with a phone number on the door. After a quick phone call, and some re-packing whilst sheepishly saying goodbye to the Austrians, our saviour arrived with the key to the hostel. Cozy and comfy, at least I had managed to salvage one situation.
We set off promptly the next morning as the last of the damp air cleared. A sense of quiet anticipation connected us during a brisk walk up over the moor. Rounding the brow of the hill, the Old Man popped into sight. A large dark grey cloud was tracking quickly east towards him, and I felt my stomach tighten. Neither of us acknowledged it to the other, but we both knew that cloud would burst at the slightest sniff of land. We shared a sigh of relief, however, as we watched it burst over St Johns Head further north, completely missing us and the Old Man. Behind it the sky was brighter, and it was quite clear the game was on.
Focused and careful movement brought us to the base of the stack, with not another soul insight, of course until I was mid crux. I set off on the first pitch. Ledges separated by cracks and corners provided the ideal opportunity to reacquaint my body with crack technique, whilst bounding higher to reach a large ledge and boulder belay. Andy joined for a meticulous discussion on the intricacies of the next pitch. I explained the initial sandy down climb and delicate traverse, which slips away below the right corner of the ledge.
It was at mid height on this absorbing and tremendous second pitch that my peripherals alerted me to the crowd of spectators gathering on the mainland. Bridging, shuffling, back and footing into the widening chimney after surmounting the first overlap. I was thankful for the second large cam, I had nearly left behind, as I shunted it up above me. Upwards progress here involves an extra skill, more akin to winter climbing, only instead of brushing snow from foot holds I was brushing sand. I paused to recall a photo I had seen of Joe Brown in the same position, wedged in under the capping roof, head poked out of the gap on the left, ready to negotiate his way out of the chimney, around the second overlap and into the off-width crack above. Acutely aware of eyes on the mainland, I dusted off any final micro footholds and exited the security of this chimney I was so well acquainted.
The following two or three pitches followed the line of least resistance diagonally rightwards. Ledge systems, slabs and corners join the various bedraggled belays in a dot to dot across the face towards the final prominent corner. The rock, fragile in places demands a degree of caution and a softer approach, under the watchful eye of a feathered spectator. Unfortunately, Andy miss timed a move with a particularly volatile Fulmar, which sprayed him in a pungent, fishy aroma. Safe to say I could smell Andy before I could see him for the rest of the day.
The final open book corner provided the most joyous airy bridging to the summit; the perfect ‘glory pitch’. We popped our heads up into blissful sunshine and flopped like a pair of seals onto the flat summit. Basking in warm contentment, we felt like King and Queen on a throne of sandy chaos. A still moment to absorb and ponder Tom Patey’s words from BBC Outside broadcast in 1967 ‘like being on a little satellite out in space, dropping away to nothingness on every side’.
Eventually, we tore ourselves from this glorious position to re-enter the chilly shade and negotiate the tangled cluster of tat woven into the depths of the tower. Three abseils in complete concentration. Rope positioning and organisation were crucial. The last free-hanging abseil might just about reach terra firma on rope stretch, but it was going to be touch and go. Time seemed to stop. We held our breath as I set off down, inching slowly towards to the ground. The tip of the blue rope touched first, folding gently onto the floor, soon joined by the green. We simultaneously breathed out a sigh of relief.
Re-united once again with our shoes, I gazed up absorbing the enormity of this incredible geological masterpiece. It occurred to me we had probably travelled in linear distance only 50m from our shoes, with only 135m of height gain. I smiled at how on paper this seemed absurd, hardly worth all our effort, yet we had gained so much, an adventure of a lifetime. Those pitches of world class crack and corner climbing were made all the more rewarding through tackling everything that guards them. Something primeval about having to accept the unexpected and over come all the challenges in your path, in the hope that all those pieces of luck and effort could align to allow the privilege of standing on top of this great castle in the sky. And whilst standing there feeling on-top of the world, we were equally humbled by the forces and power of nature all around. The beauty is in the journey the balance of hard and easy, scary and fun, man and nature neither one without the other would be as good. For me this is the quintessence of Scottish rock climbing.
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